The Clanless
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: Story set in the aftermath of Raziel's death.  What lengths will the Razielim have to go to in order to survive? How will they fight the greed of the other Lieutenants, who now see the opportunity to strike? This fic is all Vladimirsangel's fault!
1. Chapter 1

_Er, hello! waves It's been a few years since I posted here, but I got inspired washing dishes last night and decided to get the story down before it slipped away. :)_

**Disclaimer: Legacy of Kain and all characters thereof are (c) to Eidos Interactive / Crystal Dynamics.**

Everyone remembers where they were the night Raziel died.

It is a moment that is marked indelibly on the memory of every creature on Nosgoth, no matter their status, their Clan or their nature. For us Razielim, it is a moment that burns as brightly for us as the fires of celebration that lit up neighbouring Clan lands for nights thereafter, while we wallowed in darkness, grieving.

I myself was in the arms of my lover that night, a warrior of some repute in the Razielim ranks. We had climbed to a vantage point to watch the moon rise over the southern lake. There we made idle plans for our future together; what sights we would see, what new skills we would learn, and how we would bring renown and glory to the Clan. How inconsequential and hollow all those dreams seem now.

I remember the moment of his death, even to the second. The crescent moon, sharp and curved as the scimitar at my lover's belt, was almost at its zenith, when a stillness came over the land, as though all of Nosgoth was holding its breath. I leaped to my feet, casting about me in panic, although I could make out no obvious evidence for the source of my sudden concern. I turned to Aryas, hoping for reassurance, only to see my look of utter alarm mirrored on his face. He was far older than I; he had reached Elite status long ago and had even sired a few fledglings of his own. I had yet to see him exhibit any emotion even approximating fear, and to see my own distress written so clearly on his countenance was enough to convince me that something was horribly wrong.

Each vampire is bound to its sire, and thence to his sire, and so on, all the way up to the head of the Clan, by bonds of blood, heart and mind. I had no idea how strong those bonds were until that day. Abruptly, all sound ceased, all movement abated, and gave way to a sickening void. The bedrock itself seemed almost to be cracking under the silent pressure of that instant.

Then it hit us, hard. It was as though a freezing wind, bringing with it all the sorrows and horrors of the world blasted across the land, dimming and scarring everything it touched. I myself felt as though my heart had been ripped from my chest; as though something that had always been a part of me had been wrenched out, silenced and destroyed. I felt as though all sanity might desert me at any moment; as though I had awoken from a long slumber to find everyone that I loved, everything that I held dear, was gone.

I fell to my knees and choked back a sob, lost for words, bereft of feeling. I still had no idea what had happened, and could focus on nothing but the bare earth beneath my claws. I grasped at it, digging my hands in so that I could feel some connection to the reality of the cold soil, splattered now with blood from the tears that were coursing down my face. I felt Aryas brush past me, his tread heavy and unsteady. His sharp tone reached my clouded brain somehow, and I realised he was ordering me to my feet, though he made no move to offer me assistance. I could not even feel affronted at that. At that moment I wondered if I might ever feel again.

We hastened down the long slope from our vantage point to find the fortress in utter chaos. Every vampire in the entire compound had felt the disturbance and had converged in the main hall looking for answers. The same look of barely contained panic, bubbling beneath the usual veneer of calm was worn by everyone present. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing my own doubts and insecurities on the face of every friend.

By now, three of our Lord's closest advisers, along with his two generals had ascended to the dais at the far end of the room and were talking heatedly amongst themselves. Aryas used his sizeable frame and reputation to force a path through the milling crowd, and I used Aryas as a battering ram to get myself as close to the front as possible, clutching his hand in a death-grip. The crowd was restless and spooked, and, with the burden of the mercurial vampiric temperament, could easily turn violent.

Presently, we were close enough to be able to make out snippets of the discussion between the five on the dais. Aryas' rank was not sufficient to warrant his presence there, and even he would not dare argue this point with Thorin and Palmo, the two generals who held sway. There were reasons they had attained such prized positions in the hierarchy. So we watched and listened from as close a distance as we dared.

"...not enough evidence to warrant us..."

"...should verify what the seer suspects before..."

"...going to cause all out panic..."

"...worse not to tell them anything..."

The minutes ticked by and still the figures on the dais did not address the growing crowd. Certain individuals, more given to dramatics than others, were starting to panic in earnest, and their behaviour was contagious. Thorin's men, recognisable for a badge of office worn by each at the left shoulder, were stationed around the edge of the crowd. Where they spotted anyone beginning to cause a disturbance, they were dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Although it seemed harsh, I understood that Thorin was making examples of them in an effort to stem the tide of dissent and chaos that threatened to engulf us at any moment. If he and his companions had the slightest idea of what was to come, they would have left the panickers untouched – but who was to know we would need every single Clan member battle ready in the next few hours?

"Silence!"

The command came at last from Thorin, who had taken centre stage on the dais between the columns and now commanded everyone's attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aryas' brow furrow. The two had never been friends – exchanging only the barest of civilities when the situation demanded.

"At this time we know little more than you do..."

There was a grumbling murmur of dissatisfaction from the crowd. Aryas shook his head disparagingly.

"We have sent scouts to..." he paused. Every eye in the room was focused on him, needing him to convey what he knew, either to reassure them or to confirm their suspicions – but it seemed the General was not up to the task. "...find out what has happened," he finished, rather lamely.

"Where have you sent them? What have you told them to look for?" came a gruff demand from Gurt, the fledgling master. Gurt was never one to mince words. Centuries of dealing with confused newborn fledges with violent tendencies and no control over their own strength had taught him to be direct.

Aryas nodded to him, lending his support, while Thorin clenched his jaw.

"To the Lake. The seer saw something ... but we need evidence before we... jump to ..." he faltered, unnerved by the growing hostility and unease in the roiling crowd.

"What did she see?" Gurt demanded. "All these half -statements and nonsense," he muttered in an aside to Aryas. "Doesn't he realise he's making things worse?"

The General's eyes darkened, betraying his unwillingness to say what needed to be said. But there was no room for further dissembling.

"She ... saw our Lord ... he fell."

Again, the vagueness of the statement only served to disturb the crowd more, and the murmurs were quickly becoming ardent demands to know exactly what was going on. Even now, I think they knew. I think we all did, deep down. We just needed someone to say the words aloud.

"Raziel is dead."

I was almost swept up in the screaming hysteria that ensued, but Aryas pulled me clear. In a paroxysm of grief, the crowd had turned on itself and the scene was fast growing ugly. We hurried outside along with Gurt and a few of his seconds to await the return of the scouts in relative safety. Even when they came, even after they entered the hall and we had heard the reaction to the awful truth we all suspected, I could not quite believe it.

The skies were lightening above us, although it was still full night, and to the north and east the clouds were ablaze with a sickly orange glow. The Turelim and Dumahim had wasted no time in lighting the war beacons on the borderlands, and we were left in little doubt that their armies were massing to attack. They had waited a long time for this. There was not one of Kain's Lieutenants, or even several of them put together, who would contemplate a direct assault on our Clan territory if there was even the slightest possibility of our Lord being alive.

It was this that finally convinced me that Raziel was gone.

While Gurt and Aryas fell to talking in low voices, I tried to make sense of what had happened. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. It was unthinkable: Raziel was eternal, second only to Kain himself in age, influence and power, and we his subjects had considered him little short of divine. We never thought for a moment that he could die. Apparently, neither did he, as he had put in place no contingency plan for this, left no legacy or instructions as to who would be in charge, or what should happen to the Clan in the event of his death. Now it fell to to his generals and advisers to work this out for themselves, each biased toward his own personal agenda, and I for one did not hold out much hope that matters would be resolved equitably.

Finding a lull in conversation, I quietly voiced my fears to Aryas, for I knew that I could trust him to keep his own counsel. His answer surprised me.

"That is precisely why I have petitioned Gurt to have you included in the council of war."

"I'm a herbalist, not a warmonger!" I protested.

"Unlike everyone else who will be seated around the table." He took my hand and kissed it lightly. "But you sell yourself short. Herbology is not your only specialism."

I nodded reluctantly. Much of my time of late was taken up as envoy to my Lord's brothers' realms. I had worked hard to maintain stable relations with difficult contacts in the lower echelons of the Clans, much as my unfortunate predecessor had done. Such relationships were essential for trade and diplomatic purposes – but could I turn those skills to calming a room of bloodthirsty killers, each driven by their own motives, and with much of their sanity and restraint stolen by grief?

We would soon find out.


	2. Chapter 2

The fires of war lit the skies above the Clan lands with an unholy rubescent glow, a constant reminder that every passing minute brought the inevitable clash of wills and weapons closer to our doorstep. Indeed, within the hour, a force comprised of Turelim, Dumahim and Zephonim, their blood fired by the opportunity to annex our lands, was on the march. Whether sanction was given by the Emperor himself for what we all felt to be an act of utter betrayal, I cannot say. Suffice to say that he did not openly oppose their attacks.

Aryas and I had met briefly with the generals and advisers and tried to help them decide how the hierarchy should be restructured, but we had given up and withdrawn when it became apparent that Thorin and Palmo had elected to fight out the leadership issue between themselves. I personally hoped Thorin wouldn't win, both because I thought he would make a poor leader, and because I knew that Aryas would be absolutely insufferable under his command. He was Palmo's man through and through, and had made that abundantly clear on several occasions.

It was while we stood with Gurt outside the council chambers, debating the likely outcome, that the first blow fell. A serving boy who had moments before taken refreshments to the generals emerged screaming from the room and tore off in the direction of the great hall. We knew then that the enemy had no intention of allowing us time to grieve or prepare. We hastened to the council chamber, to find five corpses where our Clansmen had been, with no cause of death immediately apparent. Aryas' comment that the Zephonim must have sent elite assassins was generally accepted as truth. Either way, it did not bode well. With both Palmo and Thorin gone, we would fight back, of course: but our opponents had already gained the upper hand. In a single stroke, eradicating both the generals and the Clan advisers, they had effectively decapitated our army, thus ensuring there was little left of the chain of command.

Gurt ground his sizeable fangs before issuing a stream of orders to his seconds.

"We've wasted enough time on this – they're already on the move. Find all officers and have them report to their defence points – make sure they have a sizeable guard with them at all times; secure all the gates on the outer wall and get everyone into the inner bastion; find someone to prepare pitch, and get Palmo's men to cover the entrance down by the canal." He barked out the commands as he walked, and with each new instruction one of his men took off at a run to execute his will.

For my own part, I knew my place in the coming conflict. I would wait in the great hall with others who were less adept at death dealing. As fledglings, all newborns go through the same martial training regime, and those who are less well suited to fighting are quickly siphoned off and apprenticed to other masters. I had found my calling in unlife to be the same as I had in life: I was a healer. I would go now to gather together balms and herbs that speeded a vampire's natural recovery processes, to aid the fallen when they were brought in.

I nodded to Aryas, a signal that I knew my duty and would do what needed to be done, my mind already cataloguing and mentally locating each of the herbs and potions I would collect from my chamber. Before I could leave, however, Aryas caught my arm and drew me into an tight and unexpected embrace. After a moment, I returned it, feeling rather guilty for enjoying the sensation when such grave danger approached. That one simple act brought the enormity of the situation home to me. My lord's loss was still a raw wound, and I did not wish to contemplate losing my lover on the same night, but I had to face facts: our chances were slim.

"Stay in the great hall," Aryas murmured against my ear. "We'll defend it to the last."

It struck me then, rather absurdly, that I didn't want this to happen. Our relationship was still relatively new, but I had been drawn to him from the early days of my rebirth, and I had been as surprised as anyone when he had shown me favour. Up until an hour ago, I thought we had eternity to get to know one another, to savour each other's essence, to share time. I didn't want him to go racing to his certain death now, and I told him so.

"Aryas," urged Gurt, not unsympathetically. "There's no time."

He nodded curtly, then cupped my face in his hands. On the hard lines of his visage was written a sound conviction that gave me new strength.

"When this is done, I will find you. Honour the Clan."

And with those words alone to serve as goodbye, he was gone.

It is a well known vampire trait that undead armies march in silence, as much to unnerve their enemies as because their footsteps make so little sound. That night, we heard them coming from miles away: the thud of hundreds of booted feet on the bare rock; the wild warcries; the clash of sword on armour. They wanted us to know they were coming; that we were not to be treated as any common enemy; that this attack was unique in the long and bloody history of the Clans. Unique, momentous, and final.

Through a high window in the great hall, I could see them, spread in orderly lines on three sides of the massive fortified structure I had come to know as my home. I let my hand rest against the wall beside me, wanting physical contact with our fist line of defence, feeling the solidity of the ancient stone, mined and hewn from Razielim soil. The Fortress in itself seemed an entity, an ancient defender, her armour wood and stone, her weapons manifold and cruel, who would shelter all those who were beholden to her. I allowed my gaze to wander out to the walls, to where our indomitable warriors lined the battlements in the moonless night, lit instead by a thousand fires. Every one of them was instilled with a territorial drive to protect the Clan, to keep would be invaders from breaching the Fortress walls. To protect their mother soil.

But would it be enough?

At the end of the second hour, the black, bristling lines of the three armies broke, and they swarmed over the fortress from all sides at once like a slithering black shadow. The scene was one of wanton, indiscriminate violence. The enemy Clans fought openly amongst themselves for the right to hold the best offensive position, to have the privilege of the first strike, and to murder those they would once have called cousin. The sheer brutality of the battle carried the clash of steel and cries of challenge to the great hall, through several feet of solid stone, where we waited impatiently for the outcome. The seer was with us, her useless limbs swathed in crimson silk, her milky eyes hidden from sight in the depths of a black hood. She wished to tell us of the progress of the battle, but her link with our Lord had been far stronger with than any other, and she was exhausted and drained from the horror she had witnessed. We urged her to rest while we waited and wondered in fraught anticipation.

The door to the great hall came under attack far faster than anticipated, bursting inwards shortly after the initial charge under the onslaught of twenty Dumahim warriors. Dumah himself led the attack, unhindered by his slabby, plated armour, and dwarfing even the most gargantuan of his Clan warriors. He sneered around at the room's occupants: women; sages; newborns – all those whose martial prowess was overshadowed by other more esoteric skills, and those who had yet to taste first blood.

He snorted, an animalistic sound, like that of a maddened bull denied its long-awaited chance to gore. "Kain take you all! I was hoping for a straight fight, and what do I find?"

He thundered forward, his great cloven feet stirring up little vortices of dust, to stop before Varna, Gurt's companion.

"Women," his voice dripped venom. "Whelps," he continued, directing his blazing gaze at a small group of fledglings who stood nervously together at the right of the hall; "And cowards." This last poured from him in a rolling, guttural growl that shook chips of plaster loose from the walls.

"I would suggest, Lord Dumah, that if you are looking for a fight, you look to the walls and parapets. There you will no doubt find willing opponents worthy of your skill."

It was Varna's clear voice that cut across the Clan Lord's rant, and I envied her her pluck – but not for long. With a speed that defied even our own enhanced vision, one of the Dumahim lunged forward and seized her by the throat, raising her aloft in one armoured claw.

"How dare you address my Lord so? Filth!" he spat, and I saw Varna blink, but other than that she gave no sign that her predicament bothered her.

"I do not recognise him as someone to whom my respect is due..." she croaked. "With our own Lord gone," and here she shot a venomous glance at Dumah himself, "no Razielim would ever pay homage to anyone other than the Emperor himself."

I hoped for her sake that she would stop now. Dumah was becoming more enraged by the second, his eyes lighting to an unnatural red that I had only ever seen on a vampire at the height of a full feeding frenzy. But Varna had not finished:

"And certainly not to one of the lesser Clan Lords."

I closed my eyes. That was it. There was no turning back now. Varna had left only one path open to us. It is said of the eldest of the vampires that they become set in their ways as they grow ever more ancient, and as such their behaviour is to a greater or lesser extent predictable; but then Dumah did something that surprised all of us, not least Varna.

He laughed. Far from taking offence, the Lieutenant threw his head back and loosed a bellow that shook the foundations of the hall. Impatiently, he waved a hand at her captor and shortly stomped across to loom over Varna where she crouched on the floor, rubbing at her neck.

"I do like a woman with spirit!" He exclaimed. Varna scowled up at him.

Dumah whirled to face the rest of the room, his lip curled in what may have been what approximated cunning on that particular Clan Lord's face.

"Hear me, spawn of the traitor lord..." It always pleased me immensely that this thuggish brute would never be credited with coining that phrase, no matter how many times it was uttered in the centuries to come, and no matter how many Razielim died refuting its verity. "I am prepared to be merciful. You are not fighters – and I always need fighters – but nonetheless, some of you may be of value to me for your ..." and here he cast a sidelong glance at Varna, which, had Gurt seen it, would have earned him a broken nose, consequences notwithstanding.

"Company..."

Some things are a matter of principle, even humans agree on that one, and when eternity stretches before you, your perspective changes irrevocably. You need something to ground yourself, something to give your existence meaning. For us Razielim, it was the Clan, first and foremost, above all else, unto the death. We would die before we would dishonour our Clansmen by eschewing our vows and turning traitor. Varna may have sounded arrogant when she refused Dumah, but she said no more than the rest of us were thinking: never would we march under the banner of a lesser Lieutenant.

I could feel the same thought echoing from the minds of my brothers and sister through the Whisper: from Gurt's mate, still crouched at Dumah's feet, to the Seer, her mind battle-ready even if her body was not.

_'Death first.'_

Our Lord taught us well. No Razielim would ever accede. Vampires are bred for violence, and even those whose abilities are grounded in the softer arts are not to be found wanting when it comes to defending their own. I saw Varna leap to engage the Dumahim who had grabbed her, disarming him with a novice trick Gurt taught all fledglings in their first week; I saw the Seer repel an attack from an unsuspecting Dumahim, who staggered from her gouging at his own eyes; and I saw fledglings using their heads and remembering their lessons. They matched single Dumahim Elite warriors with small groups, accepting their own limitations and snatching victory through force of numbers.

For my part, I fought with the weapons available to me on the walls of the great hall, and later with those discarded on the floor. Later still, I fought with tooth and claw until at last, torn and bleeding badly from several devastating wounds, I slumped against a wall. Believing my end had come, I hoped that Aryas still lived, or if he did not, that he had died with honour. I did not grieve for either of us – as a warlike people we are eminently aware that our immortality is false, and though we may be exceptionally long lived, when the axe falls, we are as mortal as any human.

I felt honoured that the last sight I would see was that of an outraged Varna attacking Lord Dumah in an act of sheer impetuousness, a fitting final scene that evidenced our pride and tenacity, and I sent a final Whisper of encouragement her way before oblivion took me.

_Thanks for the reviews :D Much more to come, once I've hammered it around a bit. I'm having SUCH fun! _


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke with the taste of Aryas' blood on my lips.

I had tasted of it only once before and had been overwhelmed by its potency. When vampires bond, as Aryas and I had done, the sharing of blood is an important part of the ritual. On the night we had made our vows to one another, I had touched his very essence, and it had filled me with both terror and elation. In that all-too-brief instant, I _knew_ him – everything that he was, everything he thought and felt, and more particularly, what he was feeling for me at that precise moment in time. The memory still makes me blush; but the taste remains imprinted on my mind. Just as each person can be identified by their individual scent, so too can one person be told from another by their taste. And so it was the bright, acrid tang of Aryas' blood that stirred me to wakefulness, bringing with it the flood of memories inextricably associated with it.

We were under attack! I struggled to sit upright, only to find my movement impeded by a sizeable claw. Unwilling to give in easily after such a close brush with death, I flailed my limbs wildly, thrashing out at whoever strove to keep me down, determined not to disgrace the Clan with an easy surrender.

Aryas regarded me soberly and bore my attack with stoic patience until my distressed mind made the connection between the figure at my side and the taste in my mouth, and recognition dawned. I stared open mouthed at him for a long moment, barely able to believe my eyes, or our good fortune at having survived, before casting several frantic glances about me at the hall and its occupants.

The place was a hive of activity. At the south end, a small group of men, under Gurt's expert eye, were busy rehanging the massive door, which had become rent from its moorings during the attack. To the left and right, injured clansmen and women lay, tended by friends and partners. The seer was propped up on a pile of cushions at the rear of the hall, and despite some grievous injuries, was solemnly counselling and comforting distraught Razielim as only she could. Beneath it all, though, beneath the low hum of conversation and the industrious hammering, I could hear a low crackling, which I rather suspected was a counterpart to the acrid tang of burnt flesh that hung heavy in the air. The Clan were burning the dead – and from the strength of the fumes and the abundance of smoke seeping into the chamber, I surmised that the pyres were sizeable.

When I managed to return my attention to Aryas, I quelled my first instinct, which was to hurl myself into his arms and hide against his chest until the world was set to rights. I didn't want to appear weak, and I was still not sure how demonstrative he wanted to be in public. So, I settled for a pat on the hand and a warm smile of gratitude. Still, as relieved as I was to be alive, and to see him equally vital, I was also painfully and guiltily aware that he was keeping me from my work.

"Let me up," I insisted. "I have some bloodwort for the injured – it'll help them regain their strength until they get a chance to feed."

Aryas' face was drawn into stern lines, clearly betraying his concern for my wellbeing. As flattering as that was, I had work to do. I did my best to reassure him, as much to secure my release as to put his mind at rest. "I am well, honestly... but..." Then it struck me: I had to know, first and foremost, before anything else – before healing, before grief at lost friends: "We still hold the Clan lands? We didn't concede?"

Aryas laughed then, a great guffaw accompanied by a grin that broke up the hard planes of his face and reminded me of the reason I'd fallen for him.

"No! Of course we didn't concede!" In response to my unworded question, he indicated a group of men, barely recognisable under a liberal coating of blood and gore. They sat around a splintered table, quietly sipping bloodwine through slashed and bruised lips that were only just beginning to heal.

"That bunch of miscreants over there squared up to Turel and half his army up at the northern gate and refused to back down. It appears they held him at bay for a good hour - gave him an earful of abuse as well, from what I gather. He realised eventually that he was losing more than he stood to gain, and they forced him to retreat with his tail between his legs."

I fairly clapped my hands in delight and pride. In my heart I felt sure that our brash and fearless warriors alone could have accomplished such a feat. "And the others? What of the Zephonim, the Dumahim?"

"Repelled. Palmo's men lowered the sluice gate at the lock, and washed away what little there was of the Zephonim contingent - I believe it was a token force, only there out of curiosity, to be honest. Meanwhile, Gurt and I took Thorin's men and gave the Dumahim a battering they won't forget. Although we were held up at the inner gate..." he paused, his face suffused with guilt, "...which was why we were late in coming to the great hall." His expression darkened, and his hands moved solicitously about me, ostensbly checking for damage. I batted his questing fingers away with a wry look, although I did take the opportunity to grip his hand, already showing the three claws that the elder vampires developed. My own hands still resembled a human's, apart from the lethal black tips, and I for one could not wait for my own evolution to reach a par with his.

"On the bright side," commented Aryas, "My tally's gone up more today than in the last three years put together! I'll be rivalling Gurt at this rate."

I managed a smile at his enthusiasm, but it faded quickly. His humour was forced: we all knew this was a temporary reprieve. We had been decimated, literally, and if the current situation was anything to go by, we'd not survive another attack.

Aryas cleared his throat. "Although Gurt does have a score to settle now..."

My heart sank. "Varna?"

Aryas shook his head. "We didn't find her amongst the dead. I don't know what happened to her. Gurt's beside himself – not that you'd know," He added, indicating the grizzled fledgling master with a tilt of his head.

"Dumah," I breathed.

"What about him?" asked my lover sharply.

"Varna attacked him." My statement was met with a raised brow. "He seemed to be rather taken with her, truth be told." I struggled out of his grasp and pulled myself to my feet. "I should tell Gurt."

"No," hissed Aryas, pulling me back. "The last thing we need now is one of our most valued assets running off on a personal vendetta."

"But she might still be alive..." I protested. I hated to think that Varna might be stuck alone and friendless in the Dumahim fortress. My mind was conjuring all sorts of possibilities as to her likely fate, and none of them were pretty. "He deserves to know and make the choice himself," I asserted.

"We must think of the Clan first – when we are fully rallied and prepared, and our defences rebuilt, then we can think about a rescue."

"And in the meantime, what happens to Varna?" I asked. I could barely stand facing up to him like this. I hated conflict, and would normally go to any length to avoid an argument with him, but I really disagreed with his reasoning. I tried another tack, letting my distress show on my face, and leak into my voice. "What if they're hurting her, Aryas?"

His patience spent, Aryas grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. "Listen to me, and understand this once and for all, Mairi. Varna would never have us risk ourselves when we are so vulnerable – no member of this Clan would. When the opportunity comes, we will try to save her, but the Clan comes first. You know that," this last came with an added mental rebuke that set me back on my heels. I knew then that he considered the matter closed, and I knew equally that I would not openly dispute his decision, no matter what the consequences for my Clanswoman.

Aryas straightened and cracked his knuckles, a clear sign that he was ready for business. Of all the strange habits and foibles I had witnessed in our time together, this was the only one that really annoyed me.

"Now, we both have work to do," he said, indicating our general surroundings and their dreadful meaning. "I will meet you in the council chamber just before first light." And with a warning nod, he was gone.

Much later, exhausted and sickened by the death and suffering I had seen in helping my fellow vampires all through the long night, I turned my steps in the direction of the council chambers. I still couldn't understand what Aryas expected me to contribute to a council of war, however. From what I understood, he and what remained of the officers were to meet to try to work out a plan of action. With the two main contenders for leadership of the Clan gone, I was reasonably hopeful that a more democratic structure might be put in place. A glance inside the room quickly put paid to all such fanciful thoughts. Gathered around the table with Aryas and Gurt were three of the most obnoxious and self-obsessed members the Clan had ever known. Barely out of fledgehood, they had quickly established reputations for themselves as trouble-makers, sycophants and philanderers. I had little hope for an equitable solution while they were in the room. For the time being, I sidled in and seated myself unobtrusively at one corner of the table, keeping a distance from Aryas in case he did not want to be directly associated with me. In these difficult times, it was important to keep rumours of nepotism at bay.

Presently, the door opened and admitted Harrin, one of the few captains left alive. He had, by all accounts, been part of the party that saw off Turel. I gave him a warm greeting as he entered. He returned it with a smile, as did his companion, a younger vampire who looked very much like him. Stories were told from time to time of newborn vampires enticing their families to join them in undeath, but until now I had never seen any evidence that this might be true.

Harrin called the me meeting to order, and had Weylan, his companion, begin to read out the information they had gathered. My spirits sank even further as his light voice solemnly listed the numbers of dead Clansmen; the numbers injured beyond hope of salvation; the number of battlements that needed rebuilding and reinforcing; the amount of supplies that had been lost to fire, the loss of armaments and horses, and lastly, the loss of centuries-old relics that were part of the elder history of the Clan.

"That's all very well," chimed in Edric, one of the three trouble makers, "But it doesn't help us decide what to do next, does it? Who do we attack first? Turel? Dumah?"

"Hush your mouth, boy," snapped Gurt. "And listen for once."

Aryas nodded his agreement. "So we're down to one hundred and thirty battle ready, with another forty three still recovering, of which seventeen are unlikely to survive?"

While Harrin confirmed this, I found myself missing our Lord more keenly than ever. I had personally treated the majority of the seventeen Weylan had mentioned, and I knew that all it would have taken was a single word from our sire and their injuries would vanish as though they had never been. I wiped away a tear. Although half the Clan was wandering around with red-rimmed eyes, there was no place for such weakness at this council, I told myself sternly.

Aryas' clear tones cut across my thoughts. "Mairi?"

For a moment, I was at a loss. What had he asked? What had I missed while I was wallowing in despair? A rather sharp use of the Whisper harshly reminded me that he was asking about the seventeen who might not live.

"With time and a great deal of care, they might pull through – but they need to be withdrawn from service for at least three nights," I managed.

"We don't have that sort of time. The word is that Dumah and Turel are even now mustering their forces. They will return tonight - or tomorrow at the latest."

"Where exactly are you getting this information?" asked Franco, the second of the three troublemakers. His tone was one of outright scorn, and it was a testament to our precarious situation that Aryas did not rip out his disrespectful tongue there and then.

"We're getting reports from each of the tithe villages on the outskirts of our territory," asserted Weylan.

"What makes you think we can we rely on them?" scoffed Franco. "It could all be propaganda, fed to us via the tithe villages by the other Clans to frighten us into-"

"Into what, exactly?" snapped Harrin, his patience clearly evaporating.

"Doing the only thing we can do."

"And what's that?"

"Running away."

"Get out of this council chamber." roared Gurt, on his feet and fairly shaking with rage.

"I'm only making a point," protested the younger vampire, clearly piqued and uncomfortable.

"We don't need that sort of thinking here," snapped Aryas. "You're either fighting for the Razielim very step of the way, or you can leave now. That goes for all three of you."

With a great deal of flouncing, Franco got up and left, scattering some papers from the table onto the floor as he left. Edric and Jonquil, the third troublemaker stayed put, in silence.

Our council was thinning. While the belligerent fledgling left, I Whispered to Aryas: "Why did you invite them? One of them has already backed out."

To my surprise, there was a chuckle in his Whispered response. "Sometimes the best way to bring clarity to a situation is to show people what it's like to live in the dark."

From then on, proceedings were much smoother, and although the situation was next to hopeless, talking about it and planning made us all a little more optimistic. Plans were made to quickly reinforce broken and fallen defences, and to use as many resources as possible to try to speed the recovery of the fallen. Then, we would use the Seer's ability to gauge how much time we had before the next strike came. We were on the point of adjourning when Gurt spoke up, somewhat reluctantly. "There is one thing we haven't mentioned. One thing that could turn this whole mess around without any further bloodshed."

Aryas and Harrin fell silent, and I could see the muscles in my lover's cheek twitching spasmodically as he ground his teeth. The rest of us were in the dark as to what he meant.

"We discussed this before, Gurt. Kain will not intercede. He has always made it perfectly clear that he will not get involved in Clan disputes."

"But this is different, surely," protested the Fledgling Master. "This is no measly argument between one Lord and another over what side of a river a boundary lies." Gurt's voice was rising, and he was as animated as I had ever seen him.

"It doesn't matter. It's not his affair." growled Aryas. I could feel myself edging back from the table, recoiling from the growing tension in the air.

"This is a full-scale invasion!" cried Gurt, emphasising his point with a thump on the table. "They'll wipe us out to a man, given the chance. Why won't you at least consider-"

"Dark Gods save us, Gurt, we don't know that any of this is taking place without his blessing – for all we know the other Clans are under orders from him to take this place apart stone by stone!" yelled Aryas.

I sat open mouthed, staring at him aghast, as were most of the rest of the group. I couldn't decide whether I was more appalled at the idea of the Emperor sanctioning an open attack, or Aryas spouting such blatant heresy.

"Besides," continued Aryas, forcibly calming himself. "He won't speak with any of us – we don't rank highly enough."

"But this is not a normal situation," countered Gurt. "What about the highest ranking surviving elder?"

"Suleman?" ventured Harrin, "Would Kain see him?"

Suleman was now the eldest vampire left alive. Like many others that had survived the attack, he was not a warrior, but an adviser.

"He is resting. The Change is on him," I offered, glad to have spoken some words at least to warrant my presence. I wondered – and not for the first time - why Aryas wanted me there. I could not influence these people. Their accumulated knowledge of warfare and tactics put my one week of novice training to shame.

"Then in his absence, I propose that we three go together to petition Kain", said Harrin, indicating Gurt and Aryas. "Surely he cannot know the extent of the slaughter? Surely he cannot countenance the willful destruction of an entire clan?"

There were general grumblings of agreement, none of them particularly eager. The Emperor was not known for his even temper or fairness. I for one had a horrible feeling about it. The more believable rumours indicated that our Lord's execution was a snap decision on Kain's part, and while there was always the outside chance that Raziel had committed some act of heresy of which we were ignorant, all the rumours agreed on one thing: Kain had mutilated his wings. If our late Lord had simply angered the Emperor, would he not just have run him through?

The mutilation of the wings was significant, that much was obvious, and until we were certain of the meaning, I was loath to see our warriors walk unwittingly into the Sanctuary. For I, as one of the Clan healers, was currently attending Suleman and assisting him through his Change, and I already knew what these others did not.


End file.
